Drunk
by sylverskyz
Summary: -Xigbar/Luxord- Each time we take our turn to abuse our livers further, we do so with a quiet fuss. Why we need to get one up on each other, I have no clue. -Oneshot-


I know there are three other stories I could be working on, but this idea refused to leave my head until I wrote it out. I hit a bit of a writer's block recently, and when that happens I usually pump out oneshots. They get the ol' creative juices flowing. This super-short fanfic was completely inspired by the song 'Drunk' by Beecake. They're a pretty good band (actually, Billy Boyd is the lead singer. Pippin! I think that's cool. X3). Anyway, I threw in the lyrics because they're pretty awesome.

And before anyone asks... _Yes,_ I am a huge Luxord/Xigbar fan. Don't ask me why, because I don't know. Their personalities make an interesting pairing, I think.

Anyway, enjoy! I'd love feedback, if you'd be so kind to review.

**Disclaimer: **The characters belong to Disney and Square-Enix. The lyrics are from _Drunk_ by Beecake.

* * *

If I told you I was drunk...  
Drunk on your smile,  
Wasted on your eyes,  
And most of your wine...  
Would you be kind  
To someone so shy,  
And take advantage  
Of me tonight?  
Cause I swear I wouldn't mind.  
No, I swear I wouldn't mind.

* * *

Placing my fingertips delicately on the backs of the cards tossed to my end of the table, I slide them nearer and pick them up with a practised, one-handed movement. All the while, I stare ahead with all the intensity and smugness that can be held within one eye. A loose smirk is thrown in as well, just for good measure. My presumptuous expression is mirrored and thrown back my way, perhaps even with more confidence. One part of me allows a silent laugh to escape; the rest of me wants to smack you upside the head.

After staring each other down and sizing each other up for the hundredth time this evening, we seem to remember that we are in the midst of a game. My cards are attended to as I move them around in hand and assess my situation. Well, a pair of sevens is better than a kick in the head, I guess. My eye wanders upwards just enough to try and read your expression. As always, it is a solid stone wall; even that pompous look of yours fades away at this point in the game. I lean back in my chair a little.

"Double seven." I state in an aloof manner, flicking my wrist twice to fan my face with the cards before dropping them on the table. My face feels rather heated by now, but I try to ignore it. The basement of the castle is cold, but booze does wonders to warm a man up. I wait a moment as you sit silently, in what I know is an effort to get under my skin. You end up getting the reaction you want. "Quit being a dick."

Wordlessly, you set down a pair of queens before your mask melts away. You give me that same old look; your obnoxiously bright blue eyes are alight with victory. As _always_, I glare. And as _always_, you laugh. The shot glass is slid back my way after being filled with whiskey, and begrudgingly I knock it back. The amount of time we have been playing, or the amount of drinks we have had, I doubt either of us know. But I am aware of how the edges of my vision have ceased to become clear, and my mind has followed suit. As you shuffle the deck, you seem amused by my disappointment.

"Come now, be a good sport." Your distinct accent usually lets you carry your words with such sophistication and class, but the slight slur you now speak with hinders that. This fact gives me a strange sense of satisfaction. Judging by the empty bottle between us and the second, half full one at your side, we are both likely royally pickled – as you often put it.

"Just deal the damn cards." I mutter. You oblige, and the game continues. I win a hand, and it becomes your turn to choke back the liquid fire. Then you win, then I win, then you win twice more. Each time we take our turn to abuse our livers further, we do so with a quiet fuss. Why we need to get one up on each other, I have no clue. Maybe I was mad at you a couple hours ago. Maybe I took a joke too far for your liking. Maybe both of us just want to get the other shitfaced. Non-existence gets a lot easier when you can forget that you... don't exist.

Back and forth we go, and before much longer the whiskey is gone. You gulp down the last shot and slam the tiny glass down with a huff. I watch as you run a hand through your short blonde hair and attempt to compose yourself. No luck, dude. Your face is just as red as mine. Your train of thought is just as skewed and fucked around, too.

"'Nother bottle?" I challenge, leaning forward a little. I actually have to rest some of my weight against the table to keep myself up. Of course I don't mean it; the mere thought makes me feel sick. It seems you share that feeling.

"N'more of that, mate. I know when I'm done." You admit, waving your hand once. Oh, how that slur makes me smile. Perhaps you spot the wicked grin I hardly realise I'm sporting, because you give me a knowing look. We stare at each other for what seems like forever, giving one last attempt to make whatever silent assertion we're trying to make. I don't know what I'm trying to prove anymore, and I think you're the same. The smirks are barely there, and something else joins the smugness in our eyes. I definitely see it in you, and it becomes obvious how this evening will end.

"One more game?" I offer, knowing that we're reading each other's minds. You give a short, rich chuckle, and deal the cards one last time.

"Th'usual final... 'wager', I assume?" You ask, setting down the deck and picking up your own hand of cards with grace that usually doesn't come with a drunken stupor. I nod and scoop up my cards as well. I immediately frown at what I see.

"Y'know we'll just fight for it later, right?" I state, suddenly hating the noble game of poker and the return of your smirk. That twist of your lips, framed by finely trimmed facial hair... Oh how I wish I had the heart to _hate_ it. There are no poker faces this time. It becomes clear who wins this hand, and consequently will still be smug as ever in the morning. Sure, we'll probably wrestle over the spoils of this last game briefly, but frankly I'm too drunk to care at this point. A consolation prize is still a prize.

The fact is that we still do this time and time again, despite our pride. Booze, cards, and the shameless stagger up to my room; all of these things are the norm for us now. It's by no means healthy, and I'd probably get a lot more work done if you weren't around. But you'll have to do, because nobody plays poker, holds his drink, or pisses me off like you do.

We're heading up the stairs now, praying to Kingdom Hearts that we don't fall down and kill ourselves. Yet we're so caught up in drunken, idiot bliss that we're tripping over each other. You have already freed my hair from its ponytail. My teeth have already found the nape of your neck. I begin to doubt we'll make it, but I'm pretty sure we're still climbing.

* * *

If I told you I was done...  
Acting so cool  
Would you then say  
It wasn't working anyway.  
I'm not your type,  
But that's alright,  
Cause you're feeling drunk.  
So I'll do for tonight,  
Cause I swear I wouldn't mind.  
No, I swear I wouldn't mind.

If I told you I was drunk...  
Drunk on your smile,  
Wasted on your eyes,  
And most of your wine...  
Would you be kind  
To someone so shy,  
And take advantage  
Of me tonight?


End file.
